lodge, Alison has abandoned her chunk of brown
bread on her plate and joined Bella over by the hearth. The rest of the group
continues with the meal. The atmosphere has loosened a bit as these strangers
triangulate each other. It is a process as each finds their proper spot in a
new assemblage: verbal jockeying, body language, informational downloads
including jobs and residences serve to establish strengths, weaknesses, and put
into place the requisite social hierarchy. They smile and nod politely while
testing each other to precisely gauge who is successful, who isn’t, who is
educated, experienced, conservative, liberal, sophisticated, rich. We want to
know, we need to know this to determine how the group is to be configured for
the week ahead, each member of the new group subconsciously wondering where is
my proper spot; where is yours? So much is decided in those first seemingly
casual moments: the roll of an eye, a certain vocabulary, the tilt of one’s
head. And how often these decisions are accurate one rarely knows because these
determinations are sticky and subject to confirming bias. Alison has always
seen this weighing out process as blatant, even as others proceed ahead at the
subliminal level.
Alison asks, “Not hungry?”
“Always dieting.” Bella lies. “It would be good if you could
get something in your stomach.”
“I’m still having nausea. It comes in waves. Ugh…” Alison
holds her stomach, “shouldn’t say waves.” Even sick, she manages to connect on
a personal level with Bella. Alison is so plainly likeable. She has an innate
softness that touches others gently. She is as naturally warm as the blaze in
the hearth.
“So, did you lose a bet or something?’ Bella raises her
eyebrows.
“Oh, no,” she grimaces and runs her fingers through her
hair, “Is it that obvious?”
“The French Tips were a dead giveaway.”
“You know what? I’m going to fix that. I can play with the
team,” convincing herself as she tries to convince Bella. “Sometimes don’t you
just get sick and tired of being exactly how everyone expects you to be?”
“Yeah, I guess. Although people don’t expect much from me.
I’m a writer so they expect me to observe and then huddle in front of a
computer screen in a room by myself. And they’re actually not far off.”
“Yeah? I’m a middle-class, middle-aged, married, elementary
school teacher, and I’ll bet a whole bunch of prefab characteristics popped
into your head when I said that.”
“Yup, they did. With those statistics I guess I now know
everything about you.” She teases.
Alison says, “And look over at the table each of them in
their little bubble of stereotypes: outdoorsmen, frat boys, newlyweds. I wonder
if we construct those stereotypes or if they construct us.”
“Already a deeper conversation than one usually gets on a
fishing trip.”
Alison tosses her head and smiles at Bella, “I’m not really
prepared to talk about bait.”
“There will be a lot of talking about bait here unless this
storm keeps up, then, the entire week may really be about Parcheesi.”
“Hey, I rock at Parcheesi.”
“I kinda knew that about you.”
“You see?” Alison smiles honestly and Bella genuinely likes
her.
Back at the table, Ed Hutchinson asks, “Hey, Hobbs, there’s
no cell service so where’s the phone?”
“No phone.”
“No, phone?” Hank asks surprised.
“Got a shortwave for supplies.”
“A shortwave?” Bruce glances at Grant.
Grant responds, “And here we are inside a living
anachronism.”
Hobbs continues, “Shortwave. This storm. Only static.”
Julie says shyly, “It’s kind of romantic being isolated like
this.”
Mike says, “Hey, I ain’t that attracted to Dan.” They laugh.
And nothing brings a disparate group of individuals closer faster than a shared
laugh.
“You ain’t my type either,” Dan responds with his voice
booming, “You got less hair on your head than you got on your earlobes.”
bread on her plate and joined Bella over by the hearth. The rest of the group
continues with the meal. The atmosphere has loosened a bit as these strangers
triangulate each other. It is a process as each finds their proper spot in a
new assemblage: verbal jockeying, body language, informational downloads
including jobs and residences serve to establish strengths, weaknesses, and put
into place the requisite social hierarchy. They smile and nod politely while
testing each other to precisely gauge who is successful, who isn’t, who is
educated, experienced, conservative, liberal, sophisticated, rich. We want to
know, we need to know this to determine how the group is to be configured for
the week ahead, each member of the new group subconsciously wondering where is
my proper spot; where is yours? So much is decided in those first seemingly
casual moments: the roll of an eye, a certain vocabulary, the tilt of one’s
head. And how often these decisions are accurate one rarely knows because these
determinations are sticky and subject to confirming bias. Alison has always
seen this weighing out process as blatant, even as others proceed ahead at the
subliminal level.
Alison asks, “Not hungry?”
“Always dieting.” Bella lies. “It would be good if you could
get something in your stomach.”
“I’m still having nausea. It comes in waves. Ugh…” Alison
holds her stomach, “shouldn’t say waves.” Even sick, she manages to connect on
a personal level with Bella. Alison is so plainly likeable. She has an innate
softness that touches others gently. She is as naturally warm as the blaze in
the hearth.
“So, did you lose a bet or something?’ Bella raises her
eyebrows.
“Oh, no,” she grimaces and runs her fingers through her
hair, “Is it that obvious?”
“The French Tips were a dead giveaway.”
“You know what? I’m going to fix that. I can play with the
team,” convincing herself as she tries to convince Bella. “Sometimes don’t you
just get sick and tired of being exactly how everyone expects you to be?”
“Yeah, I guess. Although people don’t expect much from me.
I’m a writer so they expect me to observe and then huddle in front of a
computer screen in a room by myself. And they’re actually not far off.”
“Yeah? I’m a middle-class, middle-aged, married, elementary
school teacher, and I’ll bet a whole bunch of prefab characteristics popped
into your head when I said that.”
“Yup, they did. With those statistics I guess I now know
everything about you.” She teases.
Alison says, “And look over at the table each of them in
their little bubble of stereotypes: outdoorsmen, frat boys, newlyweds. I wonder
if we construct those stereotypes or if they construct us.”
“Already a deeper conversation than one usually gets on a
fishing trip.”
Alison tosses her head and smiles at Bella, “I’m not really
prepared to talk about bait.”
“There will be a lot of talking about bait here unless this
storm keeps up, then, the entire week may really be about Parcheesi.”
“Hey, I rock at Parcheesi.”
“I kinda knew that about you.”
“You see?” Alison smiles honestly and Bella genuinely likes
her.
Back at the table, Ed Hutchinson asks, “Hey, Hobbs, there’s
no cell service so where’s the phone?”
“No phone.”
“No, phone?” Hank asks surprised.
“Got a shortwave for supplies.”
“A shortwave?” Bruce glances at Grant.
Grant responds, “And here we are inside a living
anachronism.”
Hobbs continues, “Shortwave. This storm. Only static.”
Julie says shyly, “It’s kind of romantic being isolated like
this.”
Mike says, “Hey, I ain’t that attracted to Dan.” They laugh.
And nothing brings a disparate group of individuals closer faster than a shared
laugh.
“You ain’t my type either,” Dan responds with his voice
booming, “You got less hair on your head than you got on your earlobes.”
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